All the Difference
by editor frog
Summary: The first installment in the "pool scene" perspective series; this one from the perspective of a certain former army doctor. Companion piece to "All That Matters" and "All According to Plan;" can be read together or as a stand-alone.


**I'm still in the "missing scene" or "perspective" mode. (Also still in love with this series.) If there are any you would like to see explored, please send me a PM. Please remember also that reviews help in the writing process. (Everyone likes to know just how good or bad their work really is.) Enjoy!**

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"People have died_."_

All in all, it seemed a strange thing for Sherlock to say. Standing motionless, barely listening to the retort the bastard Moriarty nearly shouted across the room, John carefully lets his mind wander a bit back to the previous evening.

"_There are lives at stake, Sherlock—actual _human_ lives," _the doctor heard himself saying. _"Just…just so I know, do you care anything at all for them?"_

In truth, Sherlock's answer at that time hadn't been very surprising. What was even more annoying was that there was, technically, some grain of logic to it. It still irked John to no end, though, that he personally knew someone so callous. Someone who truly _believed_ that a little compassion was a wasted expenditure of time and energy that could be suited to more 'important' tasks.

John took in a breath, careful not to draw attention. _If I can just fade into the background, let them forget I'm even here, there's a good possibility I might come out of this in one piece._

"Are you all right?"

That _look_ again. John remembered seeing it just as he'd been forced to open the damned parka hiding Moriarty's favorite weapon. Put into words, the _look_ said 'Oh, bloody hell, what have I gotten you _into_?'

It was certainly better than the look he'd gotten upon his entrance onto the pool deck, which reminded John of the both the time Harry had told him Father Christmas wasn't real and when his pet hamster had died all at once. That look of utter disbelief—the total shock on Sherlock's face when John could see the idea that _John Watson is the mastermind behind everything that has transpired_ crossing through those silver-gray eyes—nearly stopped John's own heart cold.

_I'm fine, Sherlock, I'm okay…well, relatively okay, considering… _Words John wants so badly to voice, but the little red dot hovering over his chest stops him. The weight of the explosives serve as a constant reminder of what was at stake. He hears Moriarty give him permission to speak freely—_"You _can _talk…"_—but the overwhelming sense of preservation bottled inside the doctor only allows him to give a quick tip of his head.

The look in Sherlock's eyes speaks volumes.

_Funny,_ John thinks as his flatmate handed over the 'getting to know you' present he'd brought, _now he decides to give this 'caring lark' a go…_

_Or is he…?_

Just then, the madman steps forward, taking the memory stick in his grasp. Steps _in front of _his hostage. Leaving himself _completely_ exposed.

_Well, if I'm going to die _anyway…_might as well make it count for _something_._

He calls out to Sherlock, thinking _for the love of God listen to me for once!_ as he leaped onto Moriarty's back, clutching the evil being's scrawny neck and praying _please, God, why is my idiot flatmate still _standing _there? Doesn't he realize he's more important than me? Run!_

John can hear that screeching cackle, the one that reminds him of chickens caught in a blender. "Good!" it cries. "_Very _good!"

_Enough of this_, the doctor thinks. "If your sniper hits us, Mr. Moriarty, then we'll _both_ go up." John looks, taking in the twin looks of surprise and determination on his friend's face.

Moriarty speaks, but John pays him no mind. His attention is too focused on the bright red orb floating square in the middle of Sherlock's forehead. He realizes his mistake, thinks _of _course_ he's got every conceivable angle planned, _but only the slight shake of Sherlock's head convinces him to step off. Predictably, the red dot reaffixes itself firmly onto the explosive vest.

"Do you know what I'll do, Sherlock, if you don't leave me alone?"

John stands perfectly motionless, trying to become part of the background again. Sherlock, however, inches closer and closer to the imperiled man, his determination rapidly spreading like an unkempt vine. "Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

_Clever, _John thinks. _Talk about _obvious…

"I'll burn you," Moriarty promises. John can tell it is so because of the sheer _intensity _of the man's words. "I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

There's a pause, and it is pregnant with so much emotion. It's heavier than the plastic explosives strung like armor across John's chest.

Sherlock blinks. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

John's chest grows heavier, and his eyes close in shame. _Reliably informed._ _Bloody hell, _I'm _the one who all but told him that._

"But we both know that's not quite true."

The silence gives John's thoughts more fuel for their fire. _He's right. _John thinks of all the little things, since this caper started:

-Sherlock insisting on breakfast after the second puzzle even though he never ate during a case. _(Feeling better? _John recalls him saying just before the Connie Prince problem._)_

-The look of defeat on Sherlock's face after the old woman detonated, letting the dial tone blare in his ear once the transmitting phone had been destroyed.

-Sherlock blowing off the West murder investigation just to give John a chance to stretch his own deductive capabilities.

John's mind stretches further. He recalls a promise from Sherlock to do the shopping before he left for Sarah's, an agreement to do one of the many chores he _never_ does. _Was he trying to…no, stupid, it can't be. _

The medical man thinks on it again. 

_He _was_. He _was_ trying to…to _protect_ me, from something like _this_…_

John recalls the look of abject horror and disbelief on Sherlock's face, in that split-second as the doctor had entered the pool deck; as that look told John that Sherlock wanted so very much to believe that his flatmate, his colleague, his friend, his _John,_ couldn't_ possibly_ be the madman the consulting detective had been working so vainly to find. He remembers Sherlock standing still, even as John told him to run, to save himself…

_Bloody hell. He's _right. _Sherlock _does _have a heart. It's the one difference between these two that makes _all _the difference._

The conversation drones in the background; Moriarty's squawk trails off into the distance. It isn't until he can feel fingers tearing at the hateful vest, the heavy parka that John allows himself to take a breath or even speak.

"_Are you all right?"_

That simple question is all it takes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine…" The room starts to spin a little—_it's shock, it's just shock_—and soon John can hear the sound of explosives sliding against porcelain tile. Footsteps tread quick and sure, following the exit his tormentor took. John's own legs have turned to molten rubber, and he's amazed that he can reach the support beam without falling flat on his face.

After a few deep breaths, Sherlock returns, John's pistol firmly in hand, waving it about as though the weapon were an extension of the consulting detective's arm. John is amazed to find the man so worked up that he's actually _scratching his head_ with a loaded gun.

"That thing, that thing that…that you were going to do, that was…good."

It's the most ineloquent thing John's ever heard his flatmate say. It is also the most heartfelt.

The emotions are running too thick in this space; the smell of the chlorine and the sound of the water hitting tile can't relieve it. "I'm glad no one saw that."

"What? Why not?"

Another deep breath. The nerves aren't quite calm yet. _Damn, shock is a bitch. _"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool—people might talk."

The smile that breaks over Sherlock's face is genuine. Somehow, John just _knows_ that it is so. "People do little else."

Having gained some sense of stability, John reaches behind him, gets ready to stand next to his friend. The flicker of the red lights, however, stops both men cold.

_Damn it all to hell—and we were so _close_…_


End file.
